This is the time of year when Hollywood dumps the worst it has to offer on multiplexes, confident that not many people will visit them anyway. Judging from critics' reviews, this year is no exception. Take, for example, Chicago Sun-Times critic Roger Ebert's assessment of one of this weekend's new releases, Good Luck Chuck, which, he calls "the dirty movie of the year, slimy and scummy," and which "layers a creaky plot device on top of countless excuses to show breasts, sometimes three at a time, and is potty-mouthed and brain-damaged." A.O. Scott in the New York Times says that the movie, which stars Jessica Alba, is "a must-see for young men with a subscription to Maxim but no access to the Internet." To Michael Sragow in the Baltimore Sun, it's "a comedy about breasts made by boobs." Then there's Kyle Smith in the New York Post who describes Good Luck Chuck as "a fungal little sex comedy [that] doesn't need a review. It needs a tube of ointment and a shot of penicillin." And Michael Phillips in the Chicago Tribune figures that the film must be "some sort of humor-deprivation experiment."